


mercury in retrograde

by shoestringheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Concerned Dean, Gen, Sam Whump, Traumatic Brain Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7986466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoestringheart/pseuds/shoestringheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what happened: one, Sam took a steel pipe to the head. Two, Sam is in a coma. Three, if Sam wakes up, he may not remember. Anything. Sam gets a head injury. Dean copes as well as can be expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. compartmentalize

**Author's Note:**

> I’m no medical expert, and what I know (and am using as a basis for this fic) comes from google research. If you know anything that may be helpful, I’m always down for suggestions! That being said, I do take some creative liberties with this fic, and would implore you to keep in mind that it’s fiction, and not a research paper. Thanks so much for reading!

So this is how it goes:

Dean doesn’t even _see_ the damn thing. All he hears is an awful clank, like—well, like metal hitting a skull, in hindsight—and then Sammy groaning, followed shortly by his 6’4” brother (why _he_ got the freakish height, Dean will never know; Dean would have put it to better use, but he digresses) hitting the floor.

It isn’t the first time Dean’s scraped his sasquatch of a brother off of a floor, and it won’t be the last, but it is one of the harder ones because Sam’s like, way out of it, even though his eyes are open and he’s sort of walking. Kind of. If his dragging, tripping-over-his-own-feet, stumbling gait can be considered _walking_ , then yeah, sure he’s walking. He’s just not walking _well_ , which makes a surprising bit of difference when Dean’s trying to get him _out_ of the abandoned house and _into_ the Impala and _back_ to the motel without him, like, falling over. Which would not only be bad, but is also quite possible at present.

He manages it (and he is taking full credit for that, thank you very much, Sammy did all of _nothing_ to help with the whole business and, actually, Dean thinks, might have hindered it just a little bit), manages to get his brother loaded into the Impala and get the door closed. Sam just leans his head against the cool glass of the window and closes his eyes and that is _not_ happening, not on Dean’s watch (he’s not an idiot—that blow to the head had concussion written all over it, even if Sammy’s drunken traipse back to the car wasn’t a dead giveaway), so he reaches over and pinches the inside of Sam’s thigh.

“----- _Jesus_ , Dean,” Sam slurs and jerks, glaring over at his brother.

“No sleepin’ on the job, Sammy.”

“Sam,” he corrects, almost automatically which, actually kind of makes Dean feel better because, like, if Sam can bitch about Dean calling him “Sammy,” well, then he can’t be hurt too badly, right?

Wrong, actually, because Sam passes out—not falls asleep, like, legit passes out, like full on eyes rolling back in his head passing out—just as Dean pulls into the parking lot of the motel.

“Well, fuck,” Dean says, and turns around, his gigantic brother flopping around in the passenger seat like a god damn rag doll.  His knuckles are white as he does ninety on the way to the nearest hospital, but he talks to Sam the whole way there. “I’m gonna kick your ass for this,” he promises. “I’m going to kick your fucking ass for doing this. You know how I feel about hospitals. I don’t want any fucking part of this, and you’re gigantor ass is gonna drag me to a fucking hospital? If you survive this, I’m going to kill you. Even if you don’t survive this, I’m gonna make a deal to bring you back, and then kill you again. Watch me. I’ll do it. You know I will.”

Dean kind of makes up Sam’s response in his head as he goes. He thinks Sam would probably say something about misusing their talents to exact petty revenge or some shit, which is, like, exactly what Dean would do. If you got it, flaunt it, right?

So it doesn’t change the grip Dean has on the steering wheel, and it doesn’t change the screech of Baby’s tires as he nearly takes out two pedestrians and a nurse (who is also a pedestrian) on his way into the ER parking lot, and it doesn’t change his running up to the front desk and saying _my brother got hit in the head and now he won’t wake up_ in between gasps for air because _god dammit he’s out of shape_.

It turns out, hearing Sam’s voice in his head doesn’t change _anything_ about the current situation and, four hours later, when Dean is staring at Sam in an ICU bed, his eyes closed and the steady _beep beep beep_ of the heart monitor the only sound in the room, well, Dean just kind of thinks “fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck” over and over until his mind is just one long strand of the word.

When they were teenagers, their dad taught them something called “compartmentalization” which is basically taking all of your mental shit and boxing it up separately, putting it away so that you can focus on one thing at a time. Their Dad used to make them do it so that they could focus on the hunt—so that they could give all of their attention to what, Dad thought, was most important.

Maybe he’s doing that now, maybe he’s _compartmentalizing_ now, putting all those words the doctors said about _swelling_ and _brain damage_ and _brain surgery_ and _bleeding_ aside into their own boxes so he can just think fuck fuck fuck fuck over and over again---- or maybe he’s way past compartmentalization and just in full on panic mode because _what the fuck is he going to do_ if Sammy never wakes up?

First he’s got to stop thinking of that as a possibility, he thinks. Sammy’s the most stubborn asshole Dean’s ever met in his life, second only to Dean and maybe not even then.

So. Compartmentalization. He manages to stop thinking _fuck fuck fuck fuck_ long enough to start trying to process _this fucking trainwreck_.

Okay so, this is what happened:

One, Sammy got knocked out by the big bad flavor of the week.

Two, Sammy is beyond concussed.

Three, Sammy is brain damaged.

Four, Sammy might not wake up.

And that’s where the compartmentalization ends and the fuck fuck fuck takes over again.

There’s nobody they can call, that’s the shitty part. No, the shitty part is—Sammy might not wake up, and if he does wake up, he might be brain damaged. That’s the shitty part. The shittier part is that there’s nobody Dean can call.

Okay, so. This is what happened:

One, Sammy got KO’d.

Two, Sammy is in a coma.

Three, Sammy might not wake up.

No, he has to scratch that one. That always derails everything into fuckville, so—

One, Sammy took a steel pipe to the head.

Two, Sammy’s taking a Nap.

Three, _when_ Sammy wakes up, he might not be Sam anymore.

That’s the shitty part. All of it’s the shitty part, really, but that’s the shittiest part of them all, unless Sammy doesn’t wake up, in which case---

So, okay. He doesn’t even want to think about the repercussions of The Wall with this business. Sammy might be fine. They don’t know. They don’t know. They don’t know.

Which is the hard part. Not the hardest part, but _a_ hard part, and fuck, Dean is tired of the hard parts. He’s tired. He’s _tired_. He’s just plain fucking tired.

Compartmentalization. That’s what he has to do to deal with this. He keeps getting distracted, because Sammy’s in the ICU, and he might not wake up and if he doesn’t wake up, Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do, he doesn’t know he doesn’t know he doesn’t—

Okay. Not helpful.

Here is what he knows:

Sam got knocked out. Sam is still knocked out. They did extensive tests on him in the ER. The sum of those tests is: they don’t know. They don’t know what’s going on, or what the extent of the damage is, only that Sammy’s brain swelled up when he got hit in the head and there might be Bleeding. Bleeding with a capital B because it’s not the kind of bleeding Dean can just stitch up, it’s Inside Bleeding which is Bad.

So. Sammy’s brain is swelling up and also maybe possibly Bleeding and he might wake up and he might not and it’s all just one big Wait and See game which Dean is actually pretty shitty at. Look, Wait and See has never really panned out for him. For any hunter. For anyone. Dean’s not good at it, but it’s the only option he’s got, so. Wait and See.

Okay, those are the shitty details. Dean boxes them up in their own boxes and thinks: Okay, go away. But it’s hard to make them go away when Sam is lying in a hospital bed the color of the sheets with a tube down his throat and a tube down his nose and tubes in his arms and a tube—okay. Lots of tubes, that’s the point, to the point where Sammy looks more like the Creature from the Black Lagoon than he does Sammy. Like some fucked up octopus—a creature from the deepest, darkest part of the ocean.

A hysterical laugh bubbles at the back of Dean’s throat. No, that’s not good. Hysterical laughter always makes them come in and say things like _Why don’t you go get some rest. We can take care of him_. And Dean’s not about to do any of that bullshit.

He does file away the Fucked Up Octopus to tell Sammy when (if) he wakes up.

So this is how it went:

Dean ran into the ER and he said _my brother got hit in the head and won’t wake up_.

Everyone ran out to the Impala, and then they loaded Sam up, yanking him out of the passenger seat like he was a rag doll, like he was nothing.

Sam didn’t move, didn’t even flinch just let them manhandle him Jesus fuck he just—

No, he can’t think like that. Okay. This is how it went:

Dean went and got Help, and Help came. _It’s always scary needing Help, he’s always been the one to take care of Sammy, Sammy never needs more than—_ no.

He _can’t think like that_ , that’s the train to fuckville. Okay. This is how it went:

They unloaded him. They said: _Blood pressure too high._ They said: _Get him to CT stat_. They said: _He can’t support his airway_. They said: _He’s seizing he’s seizing, get me a fucking code cart_.

Compartmentalize, compartmentalize. Okay. So. His brother went from rag doll to seizing, like, really fast. Like, too fast. They said: _Can we call someone for you_ , and all Dean can think is like, fuck, they’re all the other has.

This is what the Doctor said: _There is swelling. There may be Bleeding. We are sending him to ICU_. Dean said: _When will he wake up_? The Doctor said: _We don’t know_.

Which is like, fucking scary. Because Dean’s always known how to take care of his little brother, he knows, he knows Sammy likes apple juice and chicken soup when he’s sick and fancy coffee and peanut butter straight out of the jar. He knows that he likes salads, but that his favorite is a grilled chicken sandwich from Chik-fil-a even though that’s, like, the pussiest fast food meal ever, but Dean won’t ever tease him about it again he swears he _swears_ if Sammy will just wake up and bitch at Dean for taking him to the hospital and be a general pain the ass little brother. He _swears_.

So this is how it is:

Sammy is Sleeping. His eyes are closed. There is a tube in his throat. Fucked up octopus. His breathing is mechanical and forced. When Dean touches the back of his hand, he is cold. Like death.

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ , Dean thinks.


	2. amnesiac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy wakes up. Dean thinks about looking at Sammy through the window of the nursery when Sammy was brand new and Dean was four years old. Dean thinks: fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Here is what Dean knows:

Aside from, like, Dean himself and their dad, Sammy is one of the most stubborn people he knows. He might be more stubborn than Dean—not that Dean would ever admit that. Look, all he’s saying is that Sammy is stubborn and Sammy’s probably the least likely person to give up, okay, so he’s _not going to die_ , which is something Dean has to believe if he’s going to be successful at this… compartmentalization thing. That’s the point.

Also the point: Sammy wakes up while Dean is away, which is just, like, proof positive that Sammy is the most stubborn person Dean’s ever met. Except for maybe, like, their dad.

So the nurse comes and gets him from where he’s camped out in the waiting room, because there’s, like, some stupid rule about, like, not being in there when they’re talking about people which is stupid, because Dean doesn’t _care_ about other people, he just cares about Sam. Anyway. He’s camped out in the waiting room because like hell is he _leaving_ when Sam’s _unconscious in the ICU_ , and the nurse comes to the door and is like “Smith,” so Dean stands up and is like “Me,” only it takes him a minute because he forgot that their name was supposed to be Smith, not Winchester.

Anyway, the nurse says “Smith” and then she comes and gets him and it’s three in the morning, which is _way_ before visiting hours so Dean thinks _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ all the way back to the consultation room she leads him to. There’s a doctor there, which makes the _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ part of his brain go into overdrive because a doctor needing to talk to him about his brother at three in the morning is never a good sign.

The doctor’s this almost-hot blonde chick (if Dean were thinking about that right now) and she’s wearing rumpled scrubs and she looks a little bit like she just woke up. She probably did; so did Dean, so the nurse is the only one who’s really functioning at 100 percent right now and she just closes the door behind her so it’s just Dean and the doctor in the consultation room.

“Hey Doc,” Dean says.

“Mr. Smith,” the doctor says in this way too serious voice like she’s about to tell him Sammy has cancer or something. “Mr. Smith, your brother woke up.”

And Dean can’t help the smile that cracks his face and makes his cheeks hurt because he _knew_ it, he _knew_ it. He knew Sammy would wake up; he’s a stubborn bastard and he wouldn’t just _leave_ Dean high and dry like that, he wouldn’t. Not again.

“That’s—that’s great, right?” Dean’s still grinning, facing the doctor like, what’s the problem, lady, because Sam’s awake, which is, like, best news ever.

“That’s promising, yes…” she says, but it’s like she’s being careful, like she doesn’t want to say too much.

“But?” Dean asks because he can hear it, he can hear the but lurking underneath her words. “But what, Doc?”

The doctor takes a deep breath and levels Dean with this look that’s half pitying, half annoyance which is actually not so unfamiliar to Dean.

“What?” Dean asks, and crosses his arms because _defensive_ is kind of his default to that pitying/annoyed look.

“But he doesn’t know who he is. Or who you are.” She pauses and Dean just kind of sits there for a minute because, like. Fuck.

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ , he thinks, but has to take a deep breath because _fuck_ is not as conducive as he wishes it was.

So the doctor goes on, talking about tests and research and that’s all well and good, but all Dean can think is that Sam doesn’t know he’s Sam, doesn’t know that Dean is _Dean_ , that Dean’s his brother, doesn’t know anything; he doesn’t know anything at all.

“Can I see him?” he asks, interrupting Dr. Blondie in the middle of her spiel but he doesn’t really give a fuck, honestly, doesn’t care if it’s rude to interrupt a doctor, doesn’t _care_ , because all he cares about is Sammy being okay and it sounds like he _isn’t_ okay and Dean just kind of has one default when Sammy isn’t okay—making sure he’s okay. Which, as mentioned, it sounds like he isn’t.

“It’s three in the morning,” the doctor says blankly, like Dean can’t read a damn clock and Dean just kind of huffs in annoyance because _yes_ , thank you, he has that figured out for himself, but _they_ were the ones who woke him up.

“And I want to see my brother.”

“He’s very disoriented Mr. Smith, I don’t think—”

“ _Disoriented_? He doesn’t know who he is, I really think that time of day has fuck all to do with it, Doc.” Which, okay, might have been the wrong choice of words. When dealing with authority figures, rule number one was, like, don’t use foul language. Not that it’s stopped him before.

“Visiting hours begin at 8am,” she says primly, like she hasn’t just dropped a bomb on Dean’s fucking world and then told him—nope, sorry, he can’t see Sammy, even though Sam doesn’t know who Dean is, doesn’t know who _Sam_ is.

“What the fuck,” he says, because like, literally _what the fuck_.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith. Rules are rules.”

And then she leaves him standing in the consultation room like _fuck fuck fuck fuck_.

So it’s five hours until _visiting hours_ start and Dean spends them going through the shitty coffee by the gallon and pressing the buzzer for the back every hour on the hour. They don’t let him back until it’s 8:00 and then he--- doesn’t run, but he walks pretty fast until he’s rounding the corner to Sammy’s room, which actually turns out to be a mistake (not that Dean will ever, ever admit to it) because Sam is awake and his eyes are wild and he scoots back in the bed so fast the IV line pulls tight and starts to alarm and then there are alarms and buzzers and Sammy’s just staring at him like _who the fuck are you_.

Dean can (barely) remember when Sam was born, can barely remember his Dad taking him up to the hospital. He’s got this fuzzy recollection of peering in the window of the nursery, of Dad pointing Sammy out and saying _He’s your responsibility, Dean_. It’s a mantra Dad repeated often--- and now here they were.

Dean backs up against the wall of the ICU room as nurses run in and try to calm Sammy down, and he just thinks. _Fuck_ , over and over and over again, just repetition of it, just a mantra in his head of _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_.

Because how the fuck is he supposed to take care of Sammy if Sammy doesn’t even know who he is?

They don’t actually make Dean leave while they calm Sam down (thank fuck) so he just waits until Sam is pinned back against the bed, breathing heavily and watching Dean like Dean’s about to gank him.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says when the nurses kind of clear out. He steps closer to the bed, but keeps his distance, keeps his hands dug deep into his pockets. “I’m Dean.” And this is, like, the weirdest thing he’s ever done, and Dean has done some Grade A Weird Shit in his lifetime; reintroducing himself to his little brother who has _no fucking clue_ who Dean is, or how they’re related… that’s Top of the Line Weird Shit.

Sam nods kind of warily, kind of like he doesn’t want Dean to come any closer, but understands that Dean is somehow important to him. “My name’s Sam.”

There’s this rush of emotion that Dean feels at the back of his throat, and for a second, he thinks he might start crying. He doesn’t, just, like, swallows and forces a grin onto his stiff face and reaches out to pat Sam’s hand.

Sam recoils and Dean pulls back, hands raised, like, _I’m unarmed_ , and he doesn’t let it show on his face how _fucking terrifying_ it is to see Sam pull back from him like Dean’s a stranger. Dean wiped the kid’s ass before he could do it himself—he’s touched a whole hell of a lot more intimate places than, like, a hand, but _Sam doesn’t know who he is_ , so of course he doesn’t want Dean touching him. Fair is fair.

“Hey, no problem, kiddo. No touching. Got it.” Dean wants to tell Sam everything, all of it, but his tongue is, like, stuck to the roof of his mouth. “You, uh, you want me to leave?”

Sam blinks slow, like he’s processing, and then he looks up at Dean. “Who—who are you?” he asks, instead of answering the question and Dean swallows _hard_ , because, fuck, he didn’t realize Sam’s _ability_ to make memories was damaged too, and is this the rest of his life, is he just going to be stuck introducing himself over and over and over to his baby brother? And that starts the _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ mantra up again and Dean just—

“I—I’m Dean, my name’s Dean,” he says finally, once he can form a thought that isn’t _fuck_.

“No—No, I remember—that. I mean. Who. What are you?” Sam frowns, a v-forming between his brows and he’s looking at Dean like he _should_ know who he is, he _should_ remember, but he _can’t_ and it’s pissing him off. “Who—who are you to me?”

Despite the relief that Dean feels at Sammy remembering his name, it still hurts for him to pull a chair closer to Sam’s bed (but not close enough to touch, just in case he forgets—Sammy doesn’t want to be touched), lean forward, and force a grin. “I’m Dean. I’m your big brother. And you’re Sammy—my pain-in-the-ass little brother.”

Sam huffs what might be a laugh, but then squints at Dean again, like he’s trying very hard to remember something. “What—where are our parents?”

And then Dean realizes. There are lots of fucked up things he’s had to do. He never thought one of them would be re-explaining to his baby brother all about the fucked-up Winchester history. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ , he thinks.


End file.
